His mother studied him quizzically. “Of course you are who you are. Who else would you be? Has your uncle lost his eyesight? Why would you need witnesses?”
Lydia gestured for the removal of soup bowls and the serving of the entrée—at lunch. The staff had outdone themselves for his mother. Max used the moment to breathe and organize his thoughts.
When the servants departed, he continued. “Uncle David believes I’m dead, Mother. He told the judge I am an impostor. The judge has frozen all our funds until I produce witnesses who can identify me. As soon as I do that, I can take back the estate and give it to a new trustee. You’ll never have to worry about money again.”
“Oh, that will be nice, dear.” She blinked owlishly. “It seems a little foolish though. I’ll just go to the judge, shall I? If a mother can’t identify her own child—”
“You stand to benefit from identifying me,” he explained patiently. “I need objective witnesses, ones who do not expect anything in return for their testimony.”
“Oh well then, Gertrude and Lydia and Phoebe—”
Lydia reached over to pat his mother’s hands. “We would all do anything to help you, my lady. We’re not objective either. Max needs his former teachers, classmates, Ives’ cousins, perhaps?” She raised an eyebrow at him.
He nodded, relieved that she understood. “I mean to write my old school and ask for directions. If mother could write to our relations, I might have time to meet them half way and at least obtain their written testimony.”
“I don’t suppose the judge would like identification from all those ladies you knew. . . ?” Lydia asked innocently.
Max shot her a glare. “No, I don’t suppose he would. Male witnesses are generally preferred.”
His mother appeared lost in her own world, peering inside her head and not paying attention to their byplay. Max tried not to imagine all the women he’d slept with nearly fifteen years ago parading into a courtroom in their matronly circumspection, gloved hands crossed, lacy hats bobbing on pompadours, skirts trailing. . . Would they even recognize him? He didn’t want to find out.
Lady Agnes let out a heartfelt sigh. “Well, I suppose we could arrange a hasty wedding party. People will understand when the circumstances are explained. Lydia, what about your family? Could they arrive within a fortnight?”
Max wondered if he crossed his eyes and banged his head on the table a few times if she’d wake up. Instead, he slammed his lamb slice onto a piece of bread and stood. “I need to return to work. Lydia, if I might have some of your time this evening?”
Looking as confused as he felt, Lydia simply nodded.
Max told himself he wasn’t fleeing when he left the dining parlor. He was simply taking the more practical path. No man wanted to know that his mother was quite, quite mad.
* * *
Not entirely certain what to do with her guest, Lydia left Lady Agnes in the guest library with pens and paper, making lists for her imaginary wedding.
Lydia immersed herself in the immense correspondence and tasks that she’d taken on this past year, apparently in training to act in place of the librarian until one was found. Or made? Could she teach herself?
Just before dinner, she gathered all her willpower and entered the tower library with a list of words she’d compiled, in hopes of duplicating her success with Max’s request. The books whispered and rustled at her entrance, but none sang out with the information she needed. Sitting at the desk at the foot of the stairs, she concentrated on each word individually, listening for the whispers to grow louder. They didn’t.
How had she heard Max’s needs but not her own? What would happen if a letter writer requested information, and she couldn’t provide it? What was the purpose of a library one couldn’t access? She didn’t even know where to place the towers of unshelved volumes.
Perhaps she couldn’t hear the books unless the person asking for information was with her. That was a truly appalling thought since Malcolms were now scattered around the world. They couldn’t possibly travel all the way here with the simple questions that they expected their librarian to answer. And since Lydia was here and she couldn’t answer her own questions—well, that theory didn’t hold much water.
Picking up Mr. C’s final journal, praying he provided information she hadn’t yet found, Lydia had dinner sent to her study. She’d rather not face Max and his mother’s strange fantasy. Perhaps if they weren’t together, Lady Agnes’s sanity might return.
Marriage! To Max! Inconceivable. Well, as a fantasy, it was rather entertaining. If she were to marry, she’d like a husband as large as Max. Single men as physically superb as he were hard to find. Ones of intelligence—even more difficult. And after his kisses—she was admittedly curious about bedplay. But certainly not to the extent that she’d marry a man who would leave her alone until he died in a foreign jungle, where she wouldn’t even know he was gone until possibly years later.
Glad to have that matter straightened out, Lydia tried reading Mr. C’s journal to see how he’d learned to be a librarian, but he seemed to find the task as natural as breathing and hadn’t required lessons.
He offered no solution to Lydia’s predicament. Worse, he made it clear that a librarian simply could not leave the library for any extended period of time. He’d given up the love of his life when she refused to stay in this cold and drafty place and had returned home to England. He’d loved his books more than her.
Lydia had long since grown accustomed to the notion of a lonely spinster’s life, but she felt a little sorry for Mr. C. He could have married had he wanted.
Finally admitting the answer to her predicament wasn’t in this journal, Lydia carried her pens and papers to the small guest parlor. Mr. Folkston had informed her that Lady Agnes had decided to retire after dinner, so Lydia and Max should be uninterrupted.
Max was already there, pacing the far end of the room as usual. He’d really believed she was like all the other silly girls who’d rushed at him. That hurt.
He stopped pacing when she entered and offered a grim smile. “How long has my mother been like this?”
That wasn’t an easier topic. “Never. She and Lady Gertrude always sound a little dotty when they’re together because they finish each other’s sentences and thoughts and no one can quite follow. But not once has anyone hinted that they might be insane.” Lydia took a seat at the table she’d been using to write his journal. The papers had been abandoned these last days.
“So perhaps my aunt keeps Mother balanced, and she slips off into fantasies when she’s alone? Then I must pray nothing happens to Aunt Gertrude!” Max flung himself into an easy chair, sprawling his long legs in front of him. “I will need to hire a companion to look after them.”
Lydia tapped her pen on the table as she thought about it, but shook her head. “No, they would not like that at all. And there really is no spare room in the school. You will have to rely on the teachers and the rest of us to look after them after you’ve traipsed off again.”
He grimaced. “Which makes me feel an utter cad, but my staying here would solve nothing—especially if it inspires impossible fantasies. So let’s not speak of it right now.”
“Would you prefer to speak of why you fled when you saw me at your mother’s house?” she asked bluntly. “You knew I expected to return here with you.”
“Natural reflex.” He rubbed his face. “It’s embarrassing, admittedly. But you were there with them, and I relied on you to be sensible. Instead, you let the hordes descend.”
“They did the same when I knocked,” she said dryly. “They’re bored little girls. I had meant to stop them, but I was too late.”
He looked up with what appeared to be hope in his eyes. “Then maybe it’s not me?”
“Oh, it’s you, all right,” Lydia was forced to admit. “They hid from me. You, they meant to swarm.”
He nodded. “It’s hopeless. I suppose I must thank you for bringing my mother here. I need to send letters to
everyone I ever knew and pray at least one will stand up for me. I counted on Mother writing all our relations. They would respond to her far better than to me.”
“She’ll happily send wedding invitations.” Relieved that he believed her, Lydia managed a smile. “It is an innovative means of obtaining a response.”
Max gave a heartfelt sigh. “I am almost tempted. Marriage would solve many things, like what to do with my sons when they need a home. And you are the only female I’ve ever met who I can trust not to make demands or push me over a balcony or otherwise have dramatic fits when I cannot be what you wish me to be.”
Lydia suspected, despite his confidence otherwise, that she’d frequently be tempted to push him off the tower. Max was too accustomed to doing things his own way. “Has someone pushed you over a balcony?” she asked with interest.
He shrugged. “They tried. I don’t push easily. Suffice it to say that life is very messy when I venture near civilization. I am utterly petrified at the idea of any kind of party to gather the witnesses I need. I’d like this done in a quiet, discreet manner, no women allowed.”
“A reception of some sort may be necessary,” Lydia warned. “But for now, let’s start with the classmates you remember and the name of your school. I can rough out a request, read it to you, and let you decide if it’s sufficient. Except for the school, the addresses may be difficult.”
“I’ve spent the day summoning names from memory. It is not a very long list, I fear. I wasn’t precisely a sociable sort when the other students insisted on mocking me.”
“And you insisted on retaliation.” Lydia had learned a little of his nature. He might not strike first, but he wasn’t meek.
Max nodded acknowledgment. “School wasn’t for me. But a few fellows didn’t feel inclined to test their strength on me or poke fun at my slowness. I saved them from a contretemps or two. We rubbed along all right.”
He gave her the school and its direction, plus the name of several students from all those years ago. Then he stood up and began to pace again. “I’m not certain if my Ives cousins will side with my uncle or will stand up for me, and I have no idea where any of them are. I’ll have to write Ashford and see if anyone can provide a list. Surely the marquess will have a secretary.”
“Many of them are married to Malcolms,” Lydia pointed out. “I’ll have information in the library. They may not send journals promptly, but they send names of newborns. Your older cousins are mostly married and producing a new generation.”
Max sent her a wry grin. “Do any have as many bastards as I do?”
“As I told you, it’s not unknown. The marquess has several illegitimate half-brothers, and he has twin by-blows of his own. They’ve all done quite well for themselves. Your own grandfather had several, I believe, but they didn’t marry Malcolms, so I don’t have accurate records. You need to give me the names of your sons, their mothers, and where they reside so I may enter them into the genealogy. I hope you’re planning on visiting your son in Edinburgh.” Lydia tried to keep the disapproval from her voice. Children needed parents, but she understood why Max might be a bad one.
“I was hoping he might come here. I’d rather go nowhere near his mother.” He ran his hand through his thick dark curls—Ives curls. “Do you think you might have these letters ready in the morning?”
“Easily,” she assured him, admiring the way he strode about the room with the grace of a great cat. “As long as you don’t want wedding invitations,” she added with a smile.
He swung on his heel and marched toward her, fire in his eyes. “If I thought it would do bit of good, I’d marry you in a minute.”
He lifted her from her chair and covered her mouth with his.
Sixteen
Max had never known a kiss as soul-searing as Lydia’s. It was as if she knew him in ways he did not know himself, and she was offering everything he’d ever craved in one magnificent package of serenity, beauty, and intelligence—a package he could not have, he tried to remind himself.
But she held him with such fierceness, kissed him with such passion, and returned his caresses with such boldness when he skimmed her curves, that he longed for what he couldn’t have. . .
On the verge of pressing her against the wall and demanding what he desired most, Max stiffened and forced himself away. He never assaulted women the way they beleaguered him. What had come over him?
Wise woman that she was, Lydia quietly drew away and left the room before he committed another sin, an irrevocable, unforgivable one.
* * *
Bright and early on Wednesday, Max ran down the tower stairs, determined to apologize for his depredations—while wishing he had the right to explore where that explosive kiss might have led. He absolutely wasn’t suited for civilization if he started assaulting women.
Looking chipper and rosy-cheeked, his mother lurked in the breakfast room, dashing cold water on his lust. Before her rested stacks of unreadable papers she’d wrapped in various colored ribbons, apparently as a sorting system.
“Good morning, my love! You look so handsome this morning.”
Only a mother could call his ratty attire and overlong hair handsome. Max kissed her cheek in appreciation.
“I have arranged the guest lists in order,” she unfortunately continued. “You and dear Lydia need to decide how many guests you would like, but I explored the castle a little last night, and I’m quite sure it will hold everyone, if need be. We’ll have to bring in a few servants—”
There was the dotty mother he knew and loved—instead of going to bed, she’d been traipsing through this gothic horror, inspecting bedchambers. She’d be installing her teachers and students next.
Not ready to deal with madness at this hour, he headed for the buffet. “And good morning to you. I am only grabbing a plate for now. I have to sign the letters Lydia has prepared, and then I must crawl under the tower again. Will you be returning to the city? I fear you’ll miss the morning train unless you’re already packed.”
He had come down early in hopes of seeing her off. She didn’t seem prepared to leave.
“Do you think I’d miss a moment of this time with you?” she asked, returning to her piles of paper. “If you cannot tolerate the city, then I must come to you. Dear Lydia will not tell me why you ran the other day and why you will not stay with us. Might you explain? Surely you can sit down with a cup of coffee for a few minutes.”
Max grimaced and poured the coffee. She’d come all this way for him. He supposed he could mind his manners a while longer. “If you’re truly prescient, then you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, it obviously has to do with women. I’ve jotted a note asking your son to join us here, so you need not see his mother.”
She may as well have been a fly on the wall and overheard his wishes. He’d forgotten that about her. Max tried not to shudder. A son did not want his mother to know everything he did.
“Richard will start the university in the fall,” she continued. “He ought to at least meet his father before you go your separate ways. But no, I do not know why you cannot stay with us.” She sounded just the tiniest bit disgruntled, rather like a child who has been denied a candy she already knew she could not have.
“Let us simply say that there is a reason I have sons and no wives and that it is best if I stay away from young ladies and leave it at that.” Astounded that he’d managed that declaration so easily, Max rewarded himself with a stack of scrambled eggs and fried new potatoes.
Lydia’s composure must be having an effect on him. Or having explained once, he felt more confident in speaking again—at least to a Malcolm who understood idiosyncrasies. His father’s family would roll on the floor in hysteria.
“You would be faithful to Lydia,” Lady Agnes asserted with certainty.
Max felt that blow to the gut. He didn’t know that now, did he? The thought of hurting honest, plain-spoken Lydia with unfaithfulness. . . He simply couldn’t consider it.
Max sighed and pushed the bundles away. “I cannot read those, Mother.” Look at him, maturely confronting his flaws and presenting them as if they were nothing! He deserved an extra bit of toast for that admission.
“Of course you can read!” She glared at him. “We sent you to a very good school. You just never liked paperwork and preferred working with your hands.”
No arguing that. “Did Lydia tell you if she’d like to see her family? Perhaps a small gathering to celebrate her new status as librarian?”
He assumed that was her new status. He hadn’t even asked how her meeting had gone. More proof that he wasn’t fit for civilized company.
“That’s this stack.” His mother patted one tied in pink ribbon. “Lydia’s family is old and dates back to Wystan and Lady Ninian’s medieval ancestors. She is destined to be librarian. Mine descends from a different branch. But it will be quite exciting for us all to come together.”
Max thought this particular fantasy had to do with tying him to one place, and he understood his mother’s need. She’d been living in fear these past years not just because his uncle was the devil, but because Max had abandoned her. So she was waving magic wands and grasping at straws. There wasn’t a lot he could do to alleviate her fears. Life was uncertain.
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